His ears had been right. The room was bare.
At the next room he was less tense, but his hands were still slimy with sweat when he touched the knob. He was angry with himself, and puzzled. He had never thought about being afraid before. Even in Antarctica there had never been a flicker of fear, just anger and a sense of necessity. He could find no single, sensible reason why he should be afraid now; and yet his knees felt like jelly and he wanted, uncontrollably, to urinate, and cold, unreasoning sweat ran down his back and broke out on his palms and forehead.
He opened the door a crack, stood listening, and faintly, almost inaudible over the sudden pounding of his pulse, was the sound of someone breathing.
He pushed the door, slid into the room. The breathing was still there, regular, a little shallow. His eyes were adjusted to darkness now, and he made out a body lying face up on the day couch. He moved across the room for a closer look, relief flooding him as he realized that the body was alive, real, human.
Vulnerable.
The eyes were open. Light glinted off them, made little bright spots in the face, the dark featureless face that stared mummy-like at the ceiling. He listened carefully. The respiration was faster, shallower. The body knew he was in the room . . . knew . . . but the eyes did not move.
Please, tiger. Devour me, gulp me down quickly.
Fear. The body was afraid to move. The immobility was a plea.
Please, tiger. Don’t cat-mouse me. One blow. One smashing blow. Kill me. Please, tiger.
But first he had to see the face. He had to know whom he was going to kill. He had to see the face, the tight, fear-ridden face . . . .
He clutched the scope, and could not raise his arm.
It came so swiftly he could only gasp, a wave of stark terror that clamped shut his throat and froze him immobile. The hallway, the room, the thing at the end of the hall, slammed down in his mind with a jolt, and his mind was screaming, It’s coming! It’s coming! Get out while you can!
The door had swung shut, and he threw himself across the room at it, wrenching at the knob, fighting it, his breath coming in great sobbing gasps of terror. Then it gave and he fell into the hall, the dark, silent hall, with voices below and the clack-clack-clack of the cardos.
He straightened up against the wall, fighting to drive the elephant-terror from his mind, brushing through thick cobwebs of fear. It was a nightmare, only a nightmare, he had been dreaming.
Yes. That was right. Suddenly he was ice-calm. His knees were steady, there was no pain in his chest, no clenching across the diaphragm. His hands were dry and steady; die stunner balanced in his right hand was cool.
He had to hurry. There were more rooms down the hall, but it was all right, the rooms would be empty, all of them would be empty, like the last two.
Two? Of course not. He smiled vaguely. He shook his head, as if to clear away some shadow. He’d only been in one room. One empty room.
The elephant would never find him. Never!
From somewhere down below a door slammed; there were noises, voices shouting something unrecognizable, then Carmine’s flat nasal monotone cutting across the hubbub.
“. . . eighty feet off the ramp. Ten people aboard, but we couldn’t have squeezed them off without alerting him. All dead, concussion, heat and suffocation.” There was a note of pleased satisfaction in the flat voice. “We saw them identify Bahr, all right. Any calls while I was gone?”
“No, no calls.”
“Good, three-thirty. I’ve got to call long distance. How are things upstairs?”
“Quiet.”
Bahr nudged Kocek and grinned. Then he crossed silently to the window and flashed a recognition pattern with the infrascope at the Volta parked down the street.
“In five minutes Chard is going to cut the main power line into here,” he whispered to Kocek. “The whole place will black out. We’ll go downstairs then. I think there are seven of them. What’s your count?”
“The same.”
“All right. Chard will come in the front after he cuts the wires. I don’t care about the rest, but I want Carmine alive. I’ve got a few questions.”
They waited five minutes, Bahr checking his watch too often. “Ten seconds,” he said. He squinted, staring into the darkest part of the hall, his hand tightening around the stunner.
Downstairs, the sound of coffee-drinking and staccato conversation, and the steady clack-clack-clack of the cardos. Carmine was on the long-distance line . . . .
“Hey!”
“The lights . . . .”
“Where’s the fuse box?”
In the noise and confusion Bahr and Kocek darted down the stairs and crept into adjacent corners of the main room, letting their eyes focus in darkness.
There was a flicker of movement toward the door, and Bahr’s stunner ripped at full lethal power, the sub-echoes ringing. A scream and a thud. Silence.
A tense whisper. “Somebody’s got a stunner.”
Kocek’s Wesson spat, a dirty tearing sound. There was a gurgle, a thump on the floor, a chair toppled . . . .
“In the corner . . .” Carmine’s nasal voice. There was die snigger of a burp being cranked. Bahr waited, and fired again, his target perfectly picked out in the infrascope. Body and gun hit the floor at the same time.
Three down.
“He’s got a scope.” Carmine’s voice again. A door squeaked, and there were hurried crawling sounds. Kocek fired twice, from a new position. There was a shriek.
Then utter silence.
“Kocek!” Bahr heard a grunt in response. “They went into the cardo room,” he said. Kocek hissed, and Bahr listened. A very faint sound of someone coming into the room.
“Bahr?”
“Over here, Chard. They’re in the cardo room. We’ll have to flush them.” He crawled silently, checking four bodies, guessed at three left in the cardo room. “Kocek! Those concussion eggs.”
Bahr unscrewed the safeties, knelt and tossed one egg right inside the cardo room door. There was a dull crash, and the glass blew out of the windows. The second toss was against the rear wall. A burst of orange light flared and a man came screaming into the hall clutching his ears. Bahr cut him down with the stunner and ducked into the room with Chard at his heels.
They started up the banks of cardos, leaving Kocek at the door with the Wesson. When he was sure he would not be silhouetted, Bahr stood up, took a pile of unpunched cards from the top of a cardo and hurled them against the far wall. A burp spat out reddish flame from behind a sorter three machines away. Chard dropped down, firing. There was a scream of pain.
One left.
“Carmine!” Bahr stood up, stunner ready. There was a scrambling sound. “Don’t shoot him,” Bahr said. A couple of shots scattered around the room as Carmine fired wildly. “I’m coming after you.” There were scurrying noises; if Carmine realized that Bahr was still alive, he gave no indication. Bahr smelled smoke, saw a flare of burning cards across the room. He saw Chard leap across to smother the flame, and cough and reel back as three slugs struck his chest. Bahr fired the stunner once, an off-target narrow beam shot and Carmine screamed.
Bahr hurled himself on the thrashing, half-paralyzed man, tore the gun out of his hand and drove a knee into Carmine’s groin. There was a shrill agonized cry, then retching.
“Bastard,” Bahr said.
“All clear, Chief?” Kocek asked.
“Get that fire out.” Bahr jerked Carmine up by the collar, smashed his fist into his face savagely twice, and hurled him out into the hall.
Then he saw Chard in the growing light of the fire. He squinted into the man’s pain-twisted face. “It’s okay, Julie. I’m hurt. Just get me out of here.”